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Recognizing and Healing from the Freeze Response
Have you ever been in a situation where you know what you want to say—the words are right there—but your mouth doesn’t move? Or someone asks you a question, and suddenly your mind goes blank, your muscles tense up, and all you can do is stand there, stuck?
If you answered yes, you’re not alone. I’ve always thought that there was something wrong with me. I worried that I looked awkward or aloof. In reality, though, I was experiencing something called the freeze response. It’s a trauma or stress response where the nervous system says:
This feels overwhelming. We’re not going to fight or run. We’re shutting down until it feels safe again.
Recently, I had an experience where my mind just went completely blank, and I froze. I was at the grocery store with my dad, shopping for some holiday items, and I just remember being so overwhelmed by the crowd, the lights, the smells, the sounds, that I completely withdrew from reality.
When we went to check out our items, the clerk began asking me how my day was, and I couldn’t for the life of me form a response. I think I might have just given her a look like, “don’t even ask.” I feel like I was pushed over the edge. All of my senses were highly engaged, my mind became dizzy, slowly emptying every thought I ever had, and my body became tense and heavy. I felt like I was walking through some thick mud or something.
Afterward, it was a silent ride. I was trying so hard to come back to life. I just knew in that moment I needed silence and space to try to get my bearings back. I’ll usually come back rather quickly when I’m alone, but if I’m with someone else, the freeze mode is still in full swing. It’s because there’s this underlying pressure to speak and perhaps explain what had happened. But when I’m in deep freeze mode, all I can really do is just try and steady my breath.
What Freeze Feels Like for Me
My thoughts go fuzzy, like the signal between my brain and mouth gets cut.
My body gets heavy, and everything slows down.
I can’t make decisions, even tiny ones.
I feel detached, like I’m watching myself from a distance.
Speaking becomes impossible, even when I desperately want to.
From the outside, it looks like I’m calm. But inside, I’m frozen in fear or overstimulation.
I remember my friend and I having a relatively deep conversation, and I had momentarily zoned out, staring into nothingness, thinking about something else completely random. When she had called my name a few times, I snapped back and realized that I had completely drifted off topic and had no clue what we were even talking about. I felt embarrassed and ashamed for slipping out of the conversation, but the thing is, I was deeply invested—I just got sidetracked.
My silence probably told her I was listening, ready to respond, but my following actions showed otherwise. She might have thought that I didn’t care, but that’s not what happened at all.
I just can’t help that my mind drifts without a second thought. It’s horrible that it happens mid-conversation, but my intention is always in the right place, and my impression is to never come across as rude or disrespectful.
Why My Brain Freezes
Over the years, I noticed that my nervous system has learned that silence keeps me safe.
Growing up, I avoided conflict or confrontation, and rejection or criticism by making myself small. When my brain detects tension now, even minor stuff, it goes back to the old survival strategy: which is, don’t speak, don’t move, and definitely don’t make it worse. It’s wild how the body remembers what the mind forgets.
I learned from a very early age that silence became my protection. I noticed that other kids who were loud were more susceptible to harmful comments, and I certainly couldn’t handle any form of rejection or judgment, so I remained hidden essentially. If I got hurt, I’d probably cause a scene, go into a full meltdown, hyperventilate, or something. I just never wanted to make myself visible for potential harm.
The Shame Spiral That Follows
After freezing, the overthinking sets in:
“Why didn’t I say something?”
“They probably think I’m weird.”
“I should have responded faster.”
“Why do I always shut down?”
The feelings afterward—the overthinking, the regret, the exhaustion—all set in. Why couldn’t I just speak? Why couldn’t my facial expressions at least show that I was interested? But no, I go completely numb, still, and dissociated. I can’t help the feelings of embarrassment and shame. I can’t even begin to tell you how much time I spend reflecting on said scenario. My brain will stir up emotions that I didn’t even realize I had. Going through a freeze response is internally traumatizing.
Learning To Thaw
I’m working on learning to recognize what’s happening before I disappear into oblivion. Here are things that help me slowly unfreeze:
Naming what I’m feeling (“I’m overwhelmed right now.”)
Taking one deep breath before reacting
Letting myself pause without guilt
Practicing scripts for stressful moments
Choosing environments where I feel safe to speak up
It doesn’t always work yet. But every small moment counts. I’ve learned that even if I’m in a freeze state, I can still sustain enough energy to remove myself from the situation.
At a friend’s wedding, I was so emotionally exhausted by the end of the night that I just couldn’t continue pushing myself to speak, engage, or just sit silently. So, I conjured up the strength to tell my friend that I was leaving to go home.
I didn’t say goodbye to anyone except her because I was, in fact, frozen with emptiness and anxiety, if you could imagine. Most of the time I can’t move, but I sat there before I left, took some time to breathe in a few good breaths, and chose to do what was right for me in that moment. I was proud of myself for not pushing through more burnout.
I Deserve to Take Up Space, Even When I’m Quiet
Silence isn’t weakness. It can be a sign of strength, of self-preservation. I’m learning that I can take moments to pause. I can come back to the conversation later. My voice is valid, even when it takes time to find.
Just because my brain freezes doesn’t mean I’m broken. Sometimes surviving looks like stillness. And healing looks like choosing to speak again.
Have you ever experienced the freeze response?
“When my voice disappears, it’s not because I have nothing to say — it’s because I’m learning how to feel safe saying it.” – Unknown
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